


Battle Scars

by theimaginesyouneveraskedfor



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 03:36:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9639155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theimaginesyouneveraskedfor/pseuds/theimaginesyouneveraskedfor
Summary: Imagine living in Laketown while the elves are helping rebuild the town and developing a crush on Thranduil who, after talking to you for a few weeks, decides he’d like to take you back to Mirkwood with him.





	

The ringing of clashing steel had finally ceased. What remained was a suffocating silence, interrupted only by the groans of the wounded and dying. Even those seemed muffled by the thickened air settling upon the crumbling city.

Laketown had been entirely decimated by Smaug’s fire and Dale, the haven to which you had fled, was little better. The battle had taken its toll. Orcs had burned many a building, corpses littered the dusty cobbles, while everything else had already been battered by years of desolation.

The stone city slowly awakened as the elderly and young who had hidden from the assault emerged. Shock filled the air and survivors numbly began to tend to those bleeding along the streets. Red streams trickled between the stones and ash blackened the walls. The smell of iron choked your lungs as you stood amidst the ruins.

Your sword was gripped loosely in your hand, the tip dragging along as you walked between bodies. Like the rest, you had sunken into the communal trauma and could barely even fathom rebuilding from such destruction. All you could think of was the red staining your hands and clothing and how it had gotten there.

Ahead you could see the dark-haired bargeman who had led the people of Laketown after it had been turned to cinders. His children were around him, embracing him, their clothing and faces muddled with dust. Bard had always been standoffish but after the tragedy, he had taken charge despite his history of fading into the background. You knew that it was to protect his children and perhaps that was why he had seized the charge.

You stopped beside a set of stone steps, cracked and crumbled before a sloping house. You dropped your blade with a clatter and sat heavily across the second stair. Your shoulder began to pulse in agony as the adrenaline was diluted by reality. You felt the open wound where the neck of an arrowhead protruded; it would have to be removed or infection would surely set in.

The sound of hooves echoed a few streets away, growing louder as you slumped forward, head in hands. You were suddenly exhausted and you dreaded tending to your wound, though you would regret ignoring it for too long. You heard the approaching horses turn onto the avenue, riding into the open plaza where Bard stood with his children and others roved like spectres.

You lifted your head wearily and looked over to where the elves sat upon their tall steeds. The silver-haired king slid down from his horse, an air of somberness surrounding him. You remembered seeing the corpse of his former mount among the blur of battle, but you suspected he had lost more than that. You had all lost so much.

“Bard,” You could only just hear his voice, “The city is yours.”

“The city barely stands,” The grim man replied in his way, a tone you had heard many times, the only one he seemed to possess.

“But it will,” The elven king avowed, sweeping aside a strand of his pale hair. “You will not be left to rebuild on your own. As promised, Mirkwood will do what it can to assist your people.”

“Thank you,” Bard’s younger daughter still clung to his leg as he faced the elf, “But these people, they are not mine, nor is the city. I am no king.”

“You are now,” The elf looked around at the corpses and those who lingered, tending to the sick and those frozen in exhaustion like yourself. For a moment, his eyes caught yours and he seemed to pause before turning back to the king, “Like it or not, these people need a leader and you are the only one to be had. Besides, it is your right.”

“Hmm,” Bard looked down at his daughter, his hand gently brushing her tangled curls, “Do you think it can be done? Can this city be saved?”

“It must be,” The elf replied sternly, turning away as his hair swished lightly through the air though the same grey dust which coated everything else clung to the ends of his locks, “It will be. I have already sent to Mirkwood for aid. Food, lumber, workers. Everything.”

“Why? We have nothing to give you in return,” Bard insisted as he seemed to shrink in his boots.

“You do and you will,” The elf turned towards you, his eyes fixed further down the street. You kicked a stone off the bottom step as you looked to your boots and clasped your hand to your shoulder in pain. “You have proved yourself a worthy ally and I believe you will continue to carry on that mantle. Besides, we will worry about such things later.”

His deep voice hung for a moment, pulled down by the soft sound of footsteps. You had closed your eyes, your hair hanging in knots around your face as you resisted the temptation to doze then and there.

“Pardon me,” His voice was closer and you sensed a shadow looming before you. You opened your eyes and slowly raised your head, surprised to find the elven king looking down on you, “I believe I have something of yours.”

“What?” You raised a brow and struggled to fathom his meaning. You had only ever seen the king from afar but for that moment in battle when for a second, you had crossed paths amidst the chaos of orcs.

His hand went to his belt, the leather hung loose around his armour, a great sword propped along it among a collection of blades. He pulled free a familiar knife and you tilted your head at the length of metal, “That is not mine.”

“Surely it is,” He examined the gilt handle with his sharp eyes, “You left it lodged in an orc’s skull in the city square.”

“I did but it still does not make it my blade,” You answered dully as you recalled embedding the knife in your foe and the elven king had appeared along the opposite edge of the square, “I found it among the dead in Laketown. They said we’d needed weapons so I got one.”

“Do you not want it then?” He sounded near incredulous though his face betrayed little.

“It does not matter to me, the battle is done.” You stood though even on the step, you barely met the eyeline of the elf, “Thank you. I am sure you have more need of it than me.”

“Fair enough,” He gave a lingering look to the knife before replacing it in his belt, “May I ask something further?”

“You may though I cannot guarantee you will get it.”

“Your name,” He replied and his silver eyes held you in spot.

“Why?” You squinted at him suspiciously.

“I have come upon you thrice, upon the shores of Laketown, amid the battle, and here,” He explained though his tone revealed little genuine interest, “I suspect I should run into you again during the restoration. I would prefer a name to the face.”

“…[Y/N].” You supplied, though you could barely think for the pain now reverberating in your arm.

“Thranduil Elvenking,” He announced his own name as he gave a subtle bow, “King of Mirkwood.”

You returned an awkward nod and sidestepped him, climbing down onto the dusty cobbles as you grabbed the sword you had dropped on the stairs. You paused for a moment as his gaze continued to follow you, “I must go. There is much to be done.” You gestured to the devastation which surrounded you before turning away, unsure of this elf’s interest in you.

“Very well,” He said quietly, a hint of wistfulness in his even tone, “I shall see you again, [Y/N].”

You did not know how to respond so you did not, instead you began down the street in search of a place to settle. If you could find a house with a roof, it would be good enough. If you were lucky, you would have the arrowhead out quickly and perhaps muster a few hours’ sleep before another day of despair.

* * *

The next morning was as dark as the night. It was as if the sun was in mourning, veiled in grey clouds to hide her anguish. In the stony house where you had slept, you built a meagre fire in the hearth and boiled water to clean your wound once more.

You had screamed the night before as you had dug it out with a blade though now it was not so agonizing. You re-wrapped your shoulder after washing away a new layer of dried blood and pulled your tunic over the bandage. You tied your hair back, most of the knots you had untangled with your fingers though it was still interwoven with dust and dirt.

You pushed open the creaky door and slipped out into the cold morning fog. You saw others emerge from other houses and you followed them as they set out down the street. You were not sure where they were going but you had no idea what else to do.

It seemed however there had been some silent accord as you were led to the city square where dozens had gathered. Among the crowd, Bard stood as a beacon while the rest listened intently. He was giving orders, though not unkindly, and trying to sort through the rabble of the living and dead around him. You joined the crowd and soon he finished speaking, stepping down from the crate he stood upon.

“Bard,” You greeted him solemnly, “I am glad to see you well.”

“[Y/N],” He seemed surprise by your sudden appearance, “I thought…I had not seen you since before the battle.”

“Oh,” He must have not noticed you the day before though he had bigger things to be concerned with, “Well…it has been chaotic.”

“To say the least,” He sighed as he looked around at the people around him, dispersing to go about their duties, “Sigrid was asking after you.”

“I saw them at the church,” You explained, trying not think too much about the days gone by, “I helped them get inside…away from the orcs.”

“Bain had said something along those lines,” He tried to give a smile but you knew how difficult it was to even breath in times like these, “So…I think you should probably see to the remaining wounded. I recall you have some experience.”

“As a midwife,” You shrugged, “I can’t say I’ll be very useful. I’d be better digging graves.”

“Well, we haven’t many medics and we need all the help we can get,” He frowned as he crossed his arms, his eyes drawn over your shoulder though he continued to talk, “You needn’t do much. Just assist those with more experience.”

“Um, sure,” You accepted, not wanting to make his job any harder than it already was.

“Right,” His eyes were still focused behind you and you turned to find the Elven king leading a group of elves into the square, “Sorry, but I must deal with the elf before he grows impatient.”

“Not at all,” You waved away the apology as he stepped past you and you gave a lingering look to the elven king before turning back to your own thoughts.

Kaleb, an older man you had known since you were a child, bent over a thin man with a makeshift splint around his leg. It had been tied on with strips of filth-laden wool and you could tell it was barely helping the leg.

Kaleb had been the resident wiseman. Not so much a medicine man as he was an apothecary. Yet, you recalled he had once told you he had been a mercenary and you wondered if perhaps he had not acquired much of his knowledge from his fighting days.

“Kaleb,” You greeted quietly as you knelt beside him, “Would you care for some help?”

“[Y/N], my girl,” He looked to you with his wizened green eyes, two fleck of jade among a map of wrinkles, “Where have you been hiding?”

“I should ask you the same,” You were as unsuccessful in summoning a smile as Bard had been, “Though I am sure you slew many an orc.”

“Too many,” He answered grimly as he returned his attention to untying his patient’s splint, the man groaning in suppressed agony, “War is a horrid thing. I had thought myself rid of it.”

“That it is,” You mustered barely as whisper as a flash of blood sparked your memory.

“You do not deserve to be witness to such things, my girl,” He rested his hand on yours for a moment, “But this war is not over. Not while there are dying people in the streets.”

“Does it ever end?” You dared ask as you kept your eyes down, afraid to look at him.

“No, not truly,” His knobbed fingers pushed the hair away from your face and you looked up at him, into eyes coloured by memories of tragedy, “Not for our hearts or minds. But we must carry on. For peace.”

A silence rose between you and finally he tore his gaze from yours, pulling once more at the knots of wool. “There is a box, you see?” He nodded towards a crate just behind him, “It is all I have to help but it should have to do. Bring it here.”

You obeyed and set the crate down beside him as he freed the man’s leg from its binding. He set aside the thin planks used to straighten the bone and fished for his own role of bandaging among his tools.

“There is a jug of whiskey, pour this man a cup,” The wounded man squeaked his thank you between moans and you handed him a tin mug.

As you worked to help Kaleb with the splint, the man passed out though it was likely better that he was not awake for it. The next patient was a small girl with a gash along her arm and the next her mother, who had been sliced down the side of her face. More and more patients were sent your way and soon you were too busy to think of your own pain.

Kaleb left you as the afternoon arrived, telling you he trusted you enough to clean and stitch minor wounds as he tended to the more dire. You had done enough that you were confident in your work though you had little enough to work with.

You bent over a man with a cut eyebrow but little else to worry about, giving him a swig of water before sewing shut the gash. You advised him to clean it often and stood, your legs starting to ache from going up and down all day. You wiped your hands on the rag hanging from your belt and turned to find your next patient but instead you were nearly bowled over by a tall figure silently waiting.

“Oh,” You steadied yourself and stepped back, looking up at Thranduil’s implacable expression, “Um, hello.”

“I did not mean to frighten you, I was merely walking by and saw you,” He explained and yet the inherent disinterest in his voice confounded you, “You must be quite busy.”

“Very,” You raised a brow and looked around, there were not so many people as before but still enough to worry you, “And you, too.”

“Busy enough,” He answered dully and his constant stare felt as if it were searing you; w _hat could he be thinking?_ “I apologize for interrupting,” He stepped back as if he had suddenly recalled something, “I…must be off and surely you must return to your work.”

“Alright,” You watched him bow quickly and turn on his heel before disappearing onto the next block. It had been such a quick encounter that it nearly left you as stunned as the battle had. You set your hands on your hips and looked around at those awaiting you. Now was not the time to worry about the elf.

* * *

The church had been transitioned into a hospice by the end of that first day and most patients had been at least seen to. Wounded and sick lay upon the pews with little but there clothes. Water was offered hourly and you had offered to work the first night in tending to the patients. You doubted you would sleep much as it were.

Short candles lit the large church, though there were not enough to do more than provide small spheres of orange. You walked the rows and washed wounds, the work keeping your mind from going astray. The night went so quickly that you had barely believed it was morning when the sun brightened the windows and your replacement arrived.

You left them in the dim church though outside, it was little brighter. Still the sky was grey though now it felt like a storm was on the horizon. Perhaps the sun had left this world. Fled after seeing such tragedy so now all that remained were its tears. Ready to pour down in despair at the slightest reminder of what had occurred below.

You found your way through the streets blindly. Your feet retraced the same path as the day before until you stood before the house you had claimed as your own. You frowned up at the looming stone structure. Of course, it did not look like a home, not now, but you were not sure it would ever. This town was utterly foreign, painted in your mind by the blood of all those you had lost.

“Are you lost?” The voice shook you from your grim daze and once more you turned to find the silver king before you. He seemed to find you at the oddest of times.

“No, not really,” You knew it sounded cryptic but you were tired and truly you were lost. You did not know where to go from here. Life had not brought you to a crossroad but rather a dead end. “What are you doing here? It’s early.”

“I could not sleep so I thought a walk may help,” His eyes pierced you, sharp even when his voice was so dull, “That was hours ago.”

“I am sure you are not the only one,” Your head felt suddenly heavy as you thought of sleep. You were tired but you knew you would not be able to sleep and so your head pounded in revolt. Your hand went to your forehead and you turned back to the façade.

“Are you alright?” Thranduil asked and his voice hinted at true concern, “You look pale.”

“I’m fine,” You insisted, “I’ve been working all night. I’m simply tired.”

“When’s the last time you’ve eaten?” He tilted his head as you looked back to him.

“I…” You paused as you began to answer, you could not recall your last meal, “I don’t know. Two days ago. I’ll eat later at the hospice.”

“You should eat now,” He insisted, looking down his thin nose; _was that distaste or worry in his eyes?_ “My people have brought plenty of food.”

“Please, I’ll find my own,” You shook your head, “I wouldn’t bother you. You should go try to rest.”

“No bother, the food is for all in the city,” He explained and your eyes were drawn for a second to his hand which twitched at his side; a tic it seemed, “Please, I would be most reassured if you obliged me. So that I know you do not go hungry.”

“Why?” You could not help the doubtful response. There was an air about him which you could not discern. You would daresay he was anxious and yet his very character was confident and self-assured.

“Because that is why I am still here, to feed and rebuild this city,” It was a statement. Spoken evenly and without emotion. Every word and every gesture furthered heightened your confusion about the elf, “Shall we?” He held his arm out in invitation and you looked at it, pondering it as you would some impossible conundrum.

“I guess,” You answered, too exhausted to argue further and now that he had set the thought in your head, your stomach began to writhe with hunger. You took his arm lightly, barely touching him as you let him lead you away from the pale stone house.

The elves had settled along a street just east of the main city square. Rather than use the rundown houses, they had erected great silken tents, their horses lined the cobbles outside and sentries roamed the walks. As you entered alongside the elven king, his men sent him subtle bows though he seemed not to notice.

He led you to the tallest tent, towering in the middle of the street, and pulled back the heavy silk of the door. He released you and let you enter first. Within, delicately carved furniture awaited and it smelled of lavender and other fragrant blossoms you could not place. Tall candles illuminated the grand interior and gleaned off the silver lids of the platters laid out upon a small round table.

“Sit,” He said curtly as he crossed the tented chamber, “Would you care for some wine?”

“Um,” You hesitated a moment before moving towards the table, two chairs waiting you took the nearest one, “Yes please. If it’s not too much.”

“I would not offer if it were,” He rounded to the other side of the table and you had not heard him approach, bottle in hand and two ornate goblets; crystal trimmed with gold and pale amethyst, “I fear I only have red today.”

“I am not particular,” You assured him and he poured carefully, not a drop out of place, “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” He sat across from you, a sense of ease replacing his former sternness, “It appears my breakfast has already arrived.”

He lifted the first lid and poached eggs rested in small cups, still warm despite being left for however long. The next platter was piled with a dozen kinds of cheese, soft and hard, and the next bread in thick slice with several different spreads on the side. The last held plump fried onions and peppers.

The aromas hit you all at once and your mouth began to water. You were glad you would be treating on this rather than the hospice bread. You took your wine glass and sipped, trying to hide your ravenous hunger. You did not want to seem desperate or rude before the elven king.

“You may help yourself,” He waved to the wares before you, “They always bring far too much for just me.”

“Thank you,” You mumbled once more before patiently serving yourself. It took all your self-control to keep from emptying the platters directly into your stomach. Thranduil picked at them carelessly, not taking much for himself and you only realized after your plate was laden that he was focused on you.

“I knew you were hungry,” You would have called him smug but it merely seemed the essence of his person, “How fares your shoulder?”

“My shoulder?” You looked at him quizzically, “How did you–?”

“I saw it after the battle,” He reminded you and you had nearly forgotten that first exchange only days before, “It must be healing well considering.”

“It is a well as can be expected,” You allowed and saved yourself another word by biting into a piece of jelly-coated bread.

“You are working at the hospice. You must be a nurse, then?” It was meant to be a question but his tone barely allowed for him to sound uncertain.

“No, I’m not,” You replied and sipped some more wine, not so bitter as most reds, “I worked as a midwife for a time but was more successful working as a seamstress. Happier, too.”

“So you’ll be returning to sewing once all this is over? When the city is rebuilt.”

“Perhaps,” You had not even thought to ask yourself that question, “Who knows what the future holds.”

He stared at you a moment, his silver eyes pulling you apart as he remained quiet. There were thoughts swirling within and yet you could not read them.

“You don’t want to stay here?” He played with a ring on his finger.

“I don’t know,” You answered honestly between bites, scraping your fork across the silver plate.

“Why not? Why then are you still here helping these people?” He mused allowed, his genuine curiosity betraying his tone.

“Because I can,” You shrugged, not truly know why unease nipped at you so, “And what’s here for me? After all of this, what is left to me here?”

“Your people,” He ventured, sweeping aside a strand of his silky hair.

“These people are scarred, they have been changed. I have changed. There is no return to the way things were.”

“There is not,” He allowed, his tone more solemn as his face softened, “But what is there for you elsewhere?”

You shrugged again, biting into a slice of poached egg rather than replying to him. You had no answer to give him or yourself. You looked away and took another nibble, a clap of thunder interrupting the thickening silence. Rain began to batter the tent and you looked up with dread. Now was not the time for a storm.

“Finish your meal,” He ordered, ever the king as he himself took a slice of bread and slathered it with marmalade, “And stay until the storm ends if you like. I would not brave such a monster.”

Another crash of thunder outside, this time closer and you nearly jumped from your chair. You swallowed hard and shifted in your seat. Perhaps it was best you accept his invitation, though it did make you anxious. _What were you to do here for the duration of the storm?_ You were not sure if you could withstand his unwavering gaze or his sobering words.

* * *

Three hours. Maybe four. The storm still raged outside and you were still in Thranduil’s tent waiting it out. After you had finished eating, there had not been much else to do. At the end of the first hour, you had decided to brave the storm and tried to leave but the elf had talked you out of it.

Now you sat with a borrowed book in hand, reading elvish folktales you had never even heard of. You had always been an avid reader and in another time you would have been infatuated by the pages. But now you could not seem to focus.

“Is there something the matter, [Y/N]?” Thranduil’s voice was low but audible over the constant battering of rain on the canvas. You looked up to find him staring back over the top of his own book and his eyes were almost startling. They had not seemed so silver before.

“I…no,” You answered, forcing your eyes back to the page, “I’m fine.”

“Truly?” He asked doubtfully and you could feel the weight of his gaze upon you, “You’ve been staring at that page for the last hour.”

“So,” You snapped the book shut and set it on the table, he sat across from you in a richly-cushioned chair. He had offered you one of your own but you had remained at the dining table, the wooden seat was not uncomfortable.

“I have no control over such things but I apologize for the weather.” His own book was set down lightly, “You must be tired and eager to be home and in bed.” You avoided his eyes, knowing he was trying to be kind but it felt so out of place. In all truth, there was no bed awaiting you. Only a woolen blanket and stone floor. “In no unseemly manner, my bed is at your disposal. To sleep, of course. If you so wish.”

“No, thank you,” You answered curtly; as tempting as it was, you were no beggar. You would wait and brave the floor.

“Very well, though the offer stands,” You dared to look up and his eyes caught yours. They seemed softer, almost warm.

“You are too kind,” You tore your gaze away once more and retrieved the book from the table; you would read at least one page before this storm ended.

* * *

The storm did not cease until dark and you were finally free to leave the silk tent of the elven king. Stepping out into the cold evening, you were almost loath to return to your pathetic abode. Yet you would not, could not linger there. You had already overstayed your welcome and you were more tired than you had ever been.

You barely sparked a fire in the old hearth before you passed out across the stone, the wool blanket a cocoon around your body. You sunk so deep into slumber that even the dying of the fire did not waken you. By the time you woke, the chamber was chilly and bright sunlight streamed through the windows.

It was past noon, the sun high in the sky, a stark contrast from the day before. You were late for your shift at the hospice, by now they had found a replacement, but you would go nonetheless.

You yawned and pushed yourself from the floor, achy from the rigid stone mattress. You loosed your hair from its tie and ran your fingers through it before retying it tightly. You must have looked an utter mess and you wondered if the elf king thought you to be a beggar after all. It did not matter. His opinion meant little.

A knock came suddenly at the door and you heart stopped. You looked over, trying to peer through the thick wood but it remained solid. You were unsure of who could know you were there and thought perhaps it was a mistake. It may be better to remain quiet and wait for them to wander off. You had a long day before you and you were unprepared to deal with more people than you needed to.

Another knock and you kicked yourself into movement. Better to send them away and be done with it. You passed through to the hallway and cautiously pulled open the door. On the other side stood a surprising figure. Thranduil wore a plain robe of sky blue silk, his pale hair shining in the light, and his silver eyes steady but swimming with thoughts unknown.

“Um, hello?” The blanket still hung around your shoulders and you realized you must have looked a hermit.

“[Y/N],” He greeted, his voice more pleasant than you could have expected, “I am merely checking in to make sure that you are in good health.”

“Of course I am,” You frowned with confusion, almost tempted to call him nosy, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Bard said he had not seen you since the day before the last and I recalled it had been as long since I had as well,” He explained matter-of-fact.

“What are you talking about? You were with me for hours yesterday during the storm,” You reached up to rub your sore shoulder.

“That was the day before,” He corrected, his brow creasing slightly as if for once his pristine features may crumble and reveal his true thoughts, “I daresay you’ve slept away an entire day.”

“Oh…” You looked to your boots in troubled thought; a whole day. You had never slept so long in your life, “Well, I am quite alright.” You assured him and pulled the blanket off your shoulders, tossing it aside, “I was just on my way to the hospice. I am sure they still need as much help as they can get.”

“Of course,” He stepped aside to let you exit and you pulled the door shut as you walked out into the noon sunlight, “May I walk with you, [Y/N]?” He sounded almost tentative and yet you knew that was not in his character.

“If you wish,” You clamoured down the stairs and onto the uneven cobbles, “You are a king after all. Though I am afraid it is a rather dull journey.”

“I should like to see the hospice,” He walked beside you, his steps long but measured so that he did not outpace you, “See that this city is healing well.”

“I am afraid you may be disappointed,” You grumbled darkly as you strode along.

“Perhaps,” He accepted though he did not seemed very affected by your response. Rather he continued on, shoulders held high and his gait as steady as ever. He was a king and he walked like one. It made you feel even smaller and you could not help but wonder if you made him feel quite the opposite.

* * *

Scaffolding lined the streets, workers both human and elven toiled endlessly, a cacophony of hammering and sawing. Stone was dragged by tired mules, grinding across the cobbles and you found yourself alongside the rest of the labourers. You were to fix doors and window frames and your little crew worked tirelessly; six women and two men. It was not easy work but it was easier than lifting the heavy blocks of stone and you were thankful for it.

Sweat lined your brow as finished replacing a heavy iron hinge and helped another woman, Mirah, in setting the wooden door in its frame. You were out of breath and Mirah left you as she declared it time for a lunch break. Likely she was off to check on her son and you did not begrudge her the visit.

You fell back onto your rear, sitting on the steps in front of the door you had just replaced. Two weeks. It felt a lifetime since the dust of battle had settled though the scars still remained. You could see it in the people and feel it within yourself. _Would this emptiness ever go away? Would your listlessness ever fade away? Would you have purpose once more or had you truly be wounded in that battle worse than you had ever imagined?_

“[Y/N],” The deep voice had grown familiar though its speaker had only grown more mysterious. You had seen him near every day since he had shown up at your door and yet you still struggled to figure him out. “I see you are working hard, as ever.”

“I suppose,” You allowed as you remained sitting, shading your eyes from the sun with your hand, “And you. You must be readying to leave. We won’t need your elves for much longer.”

“No, not much longer,” He looked away, his eyes far off down the street but there was nothing there to see, “I was only just speaking to Bard on the very same matter.”

“Oh?” You rubbed your hands together, rough and callused from days of manual work, “To tell it true, I only mention it because he did the same.”

“He seems almost anxious to see me gone,” A small chuckle escaped his lips, short but sweeter than you would have thought, “Though I cannot say I am not so eager to return to my kingdom.”

“I am sure,” You tried to smile, as if to encourage him to do the same but your lips remained as straight as ever, barely even twitching, “Who would not want to be rid of this stone city?”

“It is almost restored,” He tilted his head as he looked down at you, “You’ve worked so hard and look what you’ve done. The city of Dale will stand proud once more.”

“It will,” You leaned your chin in your hand, elbow heavy upon your knee, you still felt so foreign in the city.

“So you will not stay here? Where will you go?” He read your thoughts, so often he seemed to see right through you.

“Wherever,” You shrugged and sat straight, “It does not matter but I cannot stay here. These streets are haunted.”

His lips creased and he stood silent, fiddling with a ring upon his finger before his eyes caught yours. The sunlight flashed across his silver irises and sent a wave through you. Inexplicable and unsettling.

“Would you care to join me for lunch? As you said, I shall be leaving in the near future and I cannot say I will have many more opportunities to see you thus.”

“Sure,” You stood slowly and stretched your legs below you, “I will not deny a meal I don’t have to cook myself. Besides, all that hard work has got me starving.”

“Shall we?” He held out his arm as he had done before and you resisted the temptation to roll your eyes. Ever the king.

You took his arm and walked with him through the busy streets. The blood had long washed away and the corpses buried in the new cemetery but the memories would not die. That was why you could not stay. Not here. There were other cities for humans, great cities. Much better than Laketown and definitely better than Dale.

You entered his tent again, this time it seemed brighter than before. Crystal lanterns burned white in place of the yellow flames of candles. It smelled of flower petals and dishes were set out once more. This time specifically for two and you wondered for a moment at the scene.

Thranduil lowered your arm and crossed to pull out a chair for you and suddenly you felt…unsure. The way he was acting was unusual. He had never been unkind but he had never been so overtly generous. He seemed focused on your every move and his expression was unlike any you had ever seen upon his sharp features. Short of a smile, he still seemed to radiate a sense of cheer.

You sat down with a quiet thank you and waited for him to seat himself. He sat across from you, making sure to catch your eyes with his before offering you a glass of wine. _A golden nectar,_ he explained, _the sweetest grapes in Mirkwood._ The platters were laid aside one at a time; biscuits, bread, cheese, steamed vegetables, and finally, a collection of tarts, both sweet and savoury.

He began to serve himself and you did the same, hoping the food would distract you from the rising tension. You were sure it was all in your mind but there was something different this day. About him. About you. You could not place it and you had not felt it until you had stepped through the silk door but it was unmistakably changed.

You chewed on a wheat biscuit and washed it down with a gulp of wine. You were suddenly anxious to return to work. _Why was he not speaking?_ He was just sitting there, watching you as he ate daintily. He was thinking, you could see it in his eyes, _but of what?_

“I know you are loathe to speak of it,” He began and you had thought his voice would have been a relief but it only thickened the air, “But if you will not remain in Dale, you must decide where you will go. This is not a world one should wander in for long.”

“I have lived in one place for long enough. I have always wanted to travel. I shall wander to my content.” You did not know what had come over you but his words had made you suddenly obstinate, though you knew them to be out of concern.

“As is your right,” He did not argue to your surprise, his tone remaining unchanged, soft and subtle, “I would not presume to tell you what to do or where to go. But I would, if you would allow me, make a suggestion.”

“A suggestion?” You set down the pastry in your hand, your hunger dwindling as the heat crawled up your neck, “Which would be?”

His mouth opened and then closed. Then his cheek twitched and you had never seen such a deep crack in his veneer. There was true emotion playing across his features and it shocked you. _Was it you making him so unsettled? How could that be?_

He formed a steeple with his fingers as he leaned forward, his elbows on the table and you had never seen him with so little composure. Never had his shoulders been anything but straight and pushed back regally, his face straight and set with certainty, his very air spoke of superiority. Now he was entirely opposed to himself. He seemed lesser and yet it sparked in you an admiration. You knew you were seeing a side of him which had remained hidden for a long time.

“What is it?” You prodded, trying not to bear down on him though your curiosity pricked your flesh.

He mumbled, quickly and so quietly that you were not even sure he had spoken. He blanched and rolled his shoulders as if bracing himself while you watched silently. “Ahem,” He cleared his throat and straightened his posture, “Would you consider accompanying me back to Mirkwood when I return?”

The question hung in the air as you stared at him dumbly. You were sure he had not asked what you thought he did yet he looked on expectantly, awaiting an answer. Your eyes widened as you pondered his request. Your answer was there, immediate and unmistakable, but you could not speak it.

“You would not have to remain longer than you wish,” He continued, his words tumbling over each other, “I only…since you are undecided on your fate, I thought perhaps it was a good starting point.”

You nodded, showing him that you understood his words and brought your hands up, brushing back the stray hairs. You looked at the table, dropping your hands and reaching with one to your wine glass. A mouthful to clear your mind. And another. You did not need the alcohol, your head was screaming your answer. _Why were you trying to ignore it?_

“Yes,” You whispered and found yourself as flustered as him, “Yes,” You said louder than before, “I would love to accompany you back to Mirkwood. How could I deny such an invitation after such sweet wine?” You smiled at your own joke and raised your glass to him before your expression cleared once more, “Thank you.”

“Do not thank me,” He lifted his own glass and gently clinked it against yours, the relief plain on his face, “You have done me a greater favour than ever I have for you.”

“Thranduil,” You felt colour rise in your cheeks and hoped you did not look like some great tomato. You set your glass down and kept your eyes on his despite how difficult it was, “Truly, I must. You have been kinder than you should.”

“I have been…less than, I have been as kind as any would be,” He reached across the table and his hand rested lightly upon yours, “This battle has changed everything. Including us. It taught me lessons I should’ve already known. About myself and the world around me and I see it has done the same for you, though in a much different manner.” His voice was solemn but underlined with hope, an optimistic belief which you had long forgotten, “We would both lose ourselves in the ruins of war, but we cannot.”

“I know,” You relished the weight of his hand on yours, his eyes no longer of solid ice or mystic waters, but of molten silver, “Please, I know. I will never forget it.”

Between you there was silent recognition, an acknowledgement of shared scars wrought upon your souls by the horrors which had brought you together. You could have remained there the whole day, for a week, even a lifetime. There in that silken tent with the elven king before you, you did not feel lost. You felt peace.


End file.
